“It makes my mouth water just thinking aboot it. How did ye find Hugh Howard, then?”
“His spine’s still a bit stiff, but his boy Gordon and I mended the roof. I doubt Hugh’ll wish to be climbing ladders fer a time even after he’s able again.” He headed down the hallway to his small, cluttered office. “Let me know when the lads return. I reckon we’ll have snow on the ground by nightfall, and I dunnae want Connell catching a raw throat again.”
“If I dunnae see ’em within the hour, I’ll send Johnny oot to fetch ’em back,” Cowen returned, naming the head groom. “And I put yer correspondence on yer desk, as ye asked.”
Graeme nodded. More mail meant more bills, but neither of them cared to say that word aloud. If debt was something he could stab or bludgeon or pound senseless, they would all be in a much sounder state. Debt, though, had as much strength as he did, and a much larger share of patience.
As he topped the stairs a small gray cat jumped up to perch on the bannister and gaze at him with yellow eyes. Absently he reached over to scratch it beneath the chin, and its purr rumbled against his fingers. He needed to curb Connell’s penchant for rescuing wee animals soon, but he kept putting it off. Breaking his youngest brother’s heart could damned well wait if it gave the eight-year-old time to outgrow his obsession.
He walked into the office, stepping over yet another cat, this one an orange tabby, as he did so. Between the five cats of which he knew, the two pet foxes, and the gander that lived in the stable, the humans who lived in his house were outnumbered as it was. And that didn’t count the trio of orphaned rabbits he knew Connell currently had hidden in his bedchamber.
When he looked up again he’d managed to find the funds to pay the drovers who’d taken the sheep to market, and the thirteen pounds he needed in order to purchase a new plow horse. The outcome surprised him; perhaps luck had finally begun to swing back in their favor.
“Graeme,” Brendan exclaimed, out of breath as he skidded into the room.
Alarm rumbled through him. “What happened?” he asked, shoving to his feet. “Where are yer brothers?”
The sixteen-year-old frowned. “Naught’s happened. Ye always think I’ve caused ye trouble. Well, this time I havenae. I’ve found a way to save the lot of us.” His dark gray eyes narrowed. “I’m nae a wee bairn any longer, Graeme. I’m a man grown, and I can help ye.” He backed up and gestured out the door. “Ihavehelped ye. Come and see. But promise me ye’ll nae say a word until ye’ve heard me oot.”
That all sounded dubious, but if it meant Brendan had finally begun to shoulder some responsibility instead of going about starting fights, Graeme remained willing to give him a chance. And if he could close both eyes tonight for the first time in a week without worrying about the Duke of Lattimer’s continued health, so much the better.
“Lead the way, then,” he said, and followed his brother up the long ground-floor hallway to the small sitting room at the back of the house where Connell’s young foxes spent most of their time.
Dùghlas and Connell waited in the hallway, and the unsettled sensation in his gut deepened. “What happened to yer eye?” he asked his second-youngest brother.
With a glance at Brendan, Dùghlas jerked his thumb toward the door.
“There’d best nae be a deer or a wildcat in there.” Graeme reached for the door handle.
Before he could push it open, Brendan stepped in front of him. “Ye said ye’d listen, first. Ye gave yer word.”
“Then get on with it. I’ve little enough patience to begin with.”
Brendan nodded. He took a deep breath, the motion reminding Graeme that the lad only lacked four or five inches on him. If the sixteen-year-old couldn’t manage to put reins on his temper fairly soon, they’d all be in for it.
“Dùghlas and I both heard what the Maxwell said to ye last week,” his brother began, putting up a hand when Graeme would have interrupted to remind him that this was none of their damned business. “I ken ye think it’s nae fer us to trouble aboot, but if the Maxwell decides ye shouldnae be here, that damned well affects us, too. And ye also said I wasnae to murder the Duke of Lattimer, so I havenae.”
“Well, thank Christ fer that.”
“Graeme, ye’re to let me finish.”
“He practiced,” Connell put in. “We had to listen to him muttering all the way home.”
“Shut yer gobber, duckling, before I ferget what I’m saying.” Brendan took another breath. “Whatever pride ye have, we need to earn Dunncraigh’s gratitude. That would mean safety and blunt fer all of us. And I—we—found a way to earn it.”
“Which way?” Graeme asked slowly, a heartbeat away from shoving through the door, his brother’s pride be damned.
Brendan beat him to it and opened the door a crack. Graeme leaned in to look—and his heart stopped altogether.
They’d dragged a chair into the middle of the room. On it, sat a lass. Or he assumed the figure to be a lass, anyway; a heavy sack covered her head down to the shoulders, and a wet and muddy gown of some shade of green clung to a slender figure bound around the ankles, knees, waist, wrists, and forearms. Very quietly he pulled the door shut again.
“Who—who the devil is that?” he growled, grabbing Brendan by the collar and pushing him back against the opposite wall.
“She’s Lady Marjorie Forrester,” Dùghlas put in, backing farther down the hallway and pulling Connell with him. “Lattimer’s sister.”
Graeme stared from one to the other of his brothers. He couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly. Brendan’s defiant expression didn’t alter, but Dùghlas had the sense to look worried. Connell looked ready to cry.
“Ye… Ye kidnapped Lattimer’s sister,” he said aloud. “Why by all the bloody saints would ye do that? Are ye feverish? Or just that dim-witted?”
